


The Sewing Circle

by narcissablaxk



Category: Turn (TV 2014)
Genre: Anna takes no shit, Basically lots of women being bitches and Anna trying to put up with it, F/M, First Kiss, Is marginally successful, Mary tries to make sure Anna doesn't murder anyone
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-08
Updated: 2016-05-08
Packaged: 2018-06-07 02:14:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6781234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/narcissablaxk/pseuds/narcissablaxk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Anna is invited to join Mary Woodhull's sewing circle, but the company is…repulsive. Anna is fairly certain she can keep her anger in check until they begin to talk about Edmund.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Sewing Circle

**Author's Note:**

> A few notes before I begin: I looked up the names of the women that are supposed to be in Mary Woodhull’s sewing circle and was blessed with three names, but it is hard to figure out which woman is supposed to be which. So forgive my descriptions of them, because they are completely made up, so if I am in fact describing the wrong woman, forgive me. 
> 
> This does take place before the kiss we got to see in Season 3.

When Major Hewlett had suggested Anna join Mary Woodhull’s sewing circle, the thought was more than repugnant. She was not much of a sewer; if she were frank, she would rather spend the day playing the harpsichord in the stilted way she often did. Instead, she had been coerced to sit awkwardly at the edge of her seat and pick at her embroidery like she truly cared what it looked like when she was finished. 

But when she said she would join Mary and her friends, the major’s eyes had lit up so, and she felt something in the pit of her stomach flutter. 

Unfortunately, that flutter had long since been banished in the presence of Mary’s scrutinizing gaze and the unforgiving judgment of Lucy Scudder, Lydia Ketcham, and Rachel Clark. Mary, at least, was demure enough to keep her harsher glances to a minimum in the presence of other women, but Lucy Scudder, a truly detestable woman with nimble looking fingers but a frighteningly square jaw, did not. 

She saw that glare again now, out of the corner of her eye, and shifted just slightly under it. Lydia, an older, bird-like woman, let her watery eyes wander over to Anna’s stitching.

“Oh, Anna, you’ve done such a good job so far,” she cooed, the thin line of her lips betraying her lie. “I’m surprised that you don’t sit with us more often.” 

“Mrs. Strong is often busy at the tavern,” Mary quickly said, defending her hospitality more than Anna’s absence. Anna’s eyes rose to her at the sound of her voice, but by the time they landed on her face, Mary had already turned her gaze back to her own needlepoint. 

“Mrs. Woodhull is right,” Anna replied. “Mr. DeYoung doesn’t often give me the free time for such luxuries.” 

Rachel snickered quietly. “Well, I wouldn’t know if I’d call this a luxury, Mrs. Strong. It is our duty to make sure that we keep up with our sewing. Or else, what would our husbands and sons wear?” 

Lucy managed to laugh delicately with her, but Lydia and Mary seemed to understand what had hardened Anna’s face. Her hand, moving in a robotic, bored way, stopped halfway up. 

“Well, Mrs. Clark, I daresay I don’t have to worry about that particular duty,” Anna said softly. 

Rachel didn’t bother to apologize. “It must be so hard, without your husband,” she said instead, and Anna’s grip on her needle tightened. While Rachel’s statement was true, it wasn’t something she often liked to talk about. The constant need for protection – from a man in particular – was not something she was raised to seek. She had been raised from a young age to take care of herself; a trait she often prayed that God would thank her father for in heaven. She knew how to hunt, she could manage her own household and the finances. But what she couldn’t manage was the way society seemed to look down on her now that she was alone. 

It wasn’t that she didn’t often feel alone even when Selah was around, but having a male presence allowed her the agency that she just didn’t have now. She was able to live in her own home without worry of the British officers that also occupied the rooms. She could work in her own business without the need for a disgusting pig of a man to constantly look over her work to deem if it was worthy of pay or not. 

Anna didn’t respond. 

“Have you considered getting a divorce?” Rachel continued, and Anna suddenly realized her hand had been still too long. She quickly shoved it into the material, yanking it out with more force than necessary. 

“Not really,” she answered shortly. 

“You should,” Rachel said with certainty, as if Anna cared what she thought. “I know a few British soldiers who wouldn’t mind offering you their protection.” 

Lydia let out an unladylike snort, which prompted the other women to dissolve into laughter as well. Anna felt the color rise in her cheeks, like she was the butt of some unknown joke. 

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” she remarked, finally lowering her hand long enough to make eye contact with the dark haired woman opposite her. 

Rachel’s laughter slowly subsided. “Oh, come on, Anna, don’t play coy. We’ve seen how Captain Simcoe and Major Hewlett dote on you. You need only pick one.” 

Anna furrowed her brows and considered answering before thinking better of it and going back to her embroidery. She could feel the anger rising within her, the same kind of anger that often prompted her to say stupid things at inopportune moments. She would not let her anger get the better of her now. 

Rachel seemed to be watching her closely for a reaction. “Personally, I would choose Simcoe.” 

“And why is that?” Anna replied, going back to her sewing. Mary shifted uncomfortably in her seat. None of the other women knew about Simcoe shooting the old Brewster man, and they certainly didn’t know about his more…monstrous tendencies. He was careful to keep things like that hidden – his soft spoken propriety often made him an off-putting man, but it didn’t make him seem villainous. 

“Well, Major Hewlett is kind…but…” Rachel trailed off. “Well, you know.” 

Anna raised her eyebrows. “I do not know, Mrs. Clark. Perhaps you could enlighten me.” 

Mary brought her eyes to Anna again, full of a silent plea to keep her conduct in check. This was the crème of Setauket society, but Anna could see she was made of something different than these women. They moved with a delicacy that spoke of stronger bones in their corsets, dreams of many children and the perfect husband. Anna sought nothing but happiness, and she could find that as easily in a man as she could in the woods. 

The difference in their constitutions set them apart sharply, and Anna had a short temper for women that thought their delicate sensibilities made them better than women who were made of sterner stuff. 

“Captain Simcoe is so tall and his eyes are so blue,” Rachel said as if it was obvious, “and he is dearly loved by his men.” 

Savages, the lot of them, Anna thought darkly, but she clenched her jaw and kept her thought to herself. 

“And the major?” Lydia prompted. 

Rachel dissolved into giggles once more. “Well, you’ve seen the major.” 

Anna inhaled sharply, drawing more attention to herself. She regretted the action almost instantly. How was she supposed to explain herself? Explain her sudden need to defend Hewlett to them? They didn’t know Edmund; they knew Major Hewlett, the man that often sought to show the people of the city only the proper, if cold side of him. 

Anna had been graced with so much more than that, but how much of that did they deserve to know?

“Something you’d like to say, Mrs. Strong?” Lucy asked, her voice cool. “In…defense of the major?” 

The women fell silent, waiting for Anna to respond. She felt Mary’s eyes on her once more. They shared a long look, Mary silently apologizing for the behavior of her friends, and Anna begging for patience. 

But Mary could find nothing to say, and the silence stretched. 

“Of course, the major is often kind and polite as well,” Mary finally said. “His tenure at Whitehall has been pleasant.” 

The women finally had something else to latch on. “Tell me, Mary, does he sing ‘Rule Britannia’ after dinner every night?” Rachel laughed. 

Mary let out a small laugh that didn’t meet her eyes. “Of course not. But he is often occupied with his books and his telescope.” 

“You mean that contraption we saw when we came in?” Lydia exclaimed. “What a…funny hobby to keep.” 

“So is sewing, and yet here we have a circle devoted to it,” Anna retorted quietly. 

She could hear Mary’s exasperated sigh, but couldn’t find it in herself to apologize. The other women turned toward her, Lydia actually shifting in her chair to see her better. “I beg your pardon?” Rachel finally asked. 

Anna stuck her needle into her sewing and set it down. “I just find it hard to believe that you find sewing to be more important than modern science. Both are contributory to our daily lives, and yet one garners societal niceties and, frankly, a painful and uncomfortable weekly travesty that one might also call a waste of our time while the other garners ridicule?” 

Rachel leaned back in her seat. “Did the major teach you talk like that?” she asked snidely. “Or did you pick up all of those words at the tavern?” 

“Why don’t you ask your husband?” Anna spat. “We certainly see him there every night.” 

The other ladies gasped loudly, and Anna took a strange satisfaction in that. 

“Now, ladies, let’s relax and return to our cross stitch,” Mary tried, but Anna almost wanted to laugh at the uselessness of the statement. The other ladies didn’t even spare her a glance. Anna had shown them an opening, and they were vultures, ready to snap at it. 

“It seems like you’re getting rather defensive of the good major,” Lucy noted, having the nerve to still calmly stitch. 

“I don’t think it’s kind to gossip about good men,” Anna said simply. “Especially Major Hewlett.” 

“Good men?” Rachel exclaimed. “You mean the man who ripped up our gravestones to protect his garrison? The man that almost lost our city to rebels?” 

“Yes, that is exactly who I mean,” Anna snapped. “Because he tried to protect people like you, who don’t deserve the effort. He made a bad decision, but I think we can all say that we’ve made our own bad decisions. I mean, I certainly have.” 

Lydia raised her eyebrows. 

Anna continued like she hadn’t noticed. “I mean, I came here, didn’t I?” 

The women froze, but Mary could hardly keep in her smirk. 

“The man that you seem so keen to hang upon every bad decision is also a man who sought to make sure that I felt safe in this city, after I was preyed upon by Captain Simcoe. He is the man that seeks to halt violence, even in the face of war – the man that tried to make sure that prisoners of war and civilians alike are treated with respect. He is the man who makes sure that even women like me, with no husband to protect her, and no standing whatsoever, feel safe in their own homes. 

“You say that Captain Simcoe is a better man because he is tall and has blue eyes. But what about the brutality he has shown to be his constitution? What about the way he invites death to our doors? He was court marshaled for brutality, and you think he’s a better man than Edmund because…what? Because he’s tall?”

“Edmund?” Lydia questioned. 

“That’s his name, isn’t it?” Anna replied sharply. “You have no idea who he is, and you think you presume to know his worth?”

The women exchanged looks that Anna didn’t bother deciphering. 

“Mrs. Clark, you come to this sewing circle every week so that you can pass judgment on people who are not here to defend themselves. You categorize every single movement someone makes and try to use that to quantify their worth. And I can only guess that you do that because you are trying to prove to yourself that you’re better than them. And no matter what, you keep coming to the same conclusion. You aren’t any better than us. Your husband still drinks in my tavern; your dress still has a tear in the hem. You are human like the rest of us.

“And you, Mrs. Scudder. The only reason you even come here is because this sewing circle used to be held at your home, and for some reason, Mary Woodhull has come to surpass you in the societal ladder that rules the women of Setauket. You are only here because you hope, deep down, that one day Mary will slip up and you’ll be here to see it. And when she does, you’ll be able to bring everyone back to your home and leave Mary out in the cold. But I bet you profess Mary is your best and closest friend, don’t you?

“And you, Mrs. Ketcham. You sit there and make your dull remarks, and wait for your turn to speak, but you know that these women don’t care to listen to what you have to say. You married late because your intended husband deserted you for some unknown reason, and that made all men wary of your charms. But you’ve always been misunderstood, haven’t you? So you latched on to the women that were supposed to be the most respected in the town, hoping that would help your reputation. But it hasn’t, has it? You still do the same thing the rest of them do: you pass judgment on people that are no different than you.

“Major Edmund Hewlett is ten times the man that Simcoe will ever be. He is kind, and decent, and he has earned my respect and my affection. And your judgment, your presumptions, will never change that.” 

Her fire fizzled out; she let out a long breath. As the silence stretched, she realized that the women had taken her tirade without speaking. She took in their faces and noticed, with a clenching in her gut, that they weren’t looking at her anymore.

“Mrs. Strong?” 

She could feel the embarrassment warming her face like she was standing before a fire. She didn’t have to turn around to know whose voice that was. She closed her eyes against the resulting whispers that filled the room. Slowly, and with a deliberate movement, she turned to face Edmund Hewlett, who looked both chagrined and confused. 

“How long have you…been there?” she asked quietly. 

“Since the first time you said my Christian name,” he replied. “At least, I think it was the first.” 

She exhaled, closing her eyes against the second wave of embarrassment. When she opened her eyes, he was still looking at her, a smile playing at the corner of his mouth. He was…amused by this. Her face still burned with the blush that must have colored her cheeks, but she moved toward him in spite of the nerves that immediately took flight in her belly. 

The amusement on his face gave way to something that looked like nerves, just like hers, and she relished in the fact that he looked at least as affected as she felt. She took him by the wrist, her index finger landing on his galloping pulse. 

He seemed to forget the audience they had behind them and stared at her, drinking in her dark eyes and the few strands of her bun that had managed to sneak free. She did the same to him. How could those women, those stupid women, think that Simcoe’s blue eyes were somehow more charming than Edmund’s brown ones? His eyes were full of the stars, the universe, and the infinitely unknown thoughts of a man that was too good for this place, too good for Setauket, and too good for her. 

She released his wrist and laid her hand over his heart. His eyes left hers to fall on her hand like he couldn’t believe it was there. He looked so…astonished by her show of affection, so caught off guard, that she couldn’t help what she did next. 

She kissed him. 

Her hand, resting on his heart, tightened around the lapel of his jacket and pulled him to her. He caught himself on her hip, his hand landing on the swell of her waist, and it wasn’t until she released his lapel and took hold of his neck that he responded. 

He kissed her softly, sweetly, his other hand gently caressing the side of her face. She smiled into the kiss and let him decide when to pull away. When he finally did, she left her eyes closed, relishing in the feeling of someone’s affection. 

“I…I beg your pardon, ladies,” he choked out, his voice cracked. Anna let out a quiet laugh and let him pull her from the room and up the stairs, into his study. 

They stayed silent for a while after that, neither of them knowing how to begin the conversation. Anna found herself wringing her hands together nervously the longer the silence went on. She realized, belatedly, that Edmund might be worried about the appearance of propriety, especially in front of the women that she had just revealed to be the biggest gossips of Setauket. Her spontaneous decision, to kiss him in front of those women, could be as much a happy decision for his personal feelings as it was a bad one for his authority in the town.

“I…I confess I don’t know what to say,” he finally said. 

Anna felt, for a fleeting moment, like she was about to be rejected. 

“I, uh, I’m still trying to make sure I’m not dreaming.” 

Her laugh seemed to startle him. He glanced back at her with eyes wide with worry. 

“Then this isn’t?” he asked. “A dream, that is? This isn’t a joke?” 

Knowing that this was his natural reaction – that a woman kissing him was a joke, ignited her anger again. How many times had he been treated poorly, how many times had he been made the butt of a joke for the sake of a woman’s sewing circle? 

“Those women,” Anna burst out for a moment, “do not deserve to speak on you, much less pass judgment on people that they do not know. I shouldn’t have…I shouldn’t have done that, kiss you in front of them, but I couldn’t just sit there and let them disparage your character. And your eyes.” 

“My eyes?” He looked momentarily offended, but mostly confused.

She closed her eyes again, this time allowing herself to laugh. “They apparently don’t like brown eyes.” She held back the comparison they’d made to Simcoe.

He huffed. “Well, I happen to love brown eyes.” She glanced up at him; his eyes were locked on hers once more. She knew, without asking, that he was referring to her own eyes.

She reached for his hands again, this time bringing his hand up to her mouth and kissing his knuckles. He watched her hungrily, his eyes locked on her mouth, and when she released his hands, he pulled her in for another kiss, this time letting his tongue trace her lower lip and pulling her even closer when she allowed him access. 

She released his hands and let her hands rest at the back of his neck, letting her fingers play with his short hair that was revealed from under his wig. He shivered, letting a groan tumble from his mouth. 

She was the one that pulled away first this time, her breath stolen by his kiss. 

“Do you still think you’re dreaming?” she asked, her voice soft. 

“If this is a dream,” he whispered, his lips almost touching hers, his eyes still on her mouth. “Then I plan to enjoy it.”


End file.
